


The Escape

by auraofdawn



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hades (Video Game) Fusion, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Crushes, Developing Friendships, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Secrets, Father-Son Relationship, Meet-Cute, Mild Blood, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Temporary Character Death, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auraofdawn/pseuds/auraofdawn
Summary: As a Prince of the Underworld, Nero is entitled to all the glory and leisure befit to the gods of his distant family on Olympus. Yet, he has anything but an actual family, and he'll fight for the rest of his eternal life to find one. (a Hades game AU)
Relationships: Dante & Nero (Devil May Cry), Kyrie/Nero (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 54





	1. dark foresight

**Author's Note:**

> i'm just so full of AUs, i couldn't stop this one from forming the second i started hades in september--but the settings fit so well! who was i to ignore it?? please enjoy!

Nero does not look back. 

He definitely doesn't _want_ to, and Orpheus would be keen to give him a good reason not to. Never mind that he’s scarcely even seen the front door of the House he’s been trapped in his entire life. Looking at yet another relief of his father carved into ageless stone is the last thing he needs to see. The less he thinks about _leaving_ and more about _going_ , the better. All that matters is that he's had enough, and he's not going to take any more. 

The mini-hydras make it easy to keep his head up, around and back, and _gods_ , these little buggers sure love twisting around, don't they? But they're tiny, fly-like things, perfectly-sized to get batted back by his sword. He's had more than enough practice to not miss. 

_Child's play_ , Agni would say. 

_Who is playing? May we join?_ Rudra would add, only to be promptly bonked on the head. 

Nero can already hear the echo of his own laughter, like those of the Shades that overpopulate this hell that he only knows as home. 

_Gods_ , he's already homesick—no, he is _sick of home_ , that's exactly it. There are wretched, damned things in front of him, tasked only with ending his quest, and he can't stop thinking about his half-brained sparring partners. 

Better to dull his own ears to the roar of hellbats. Red Queen burns hot under his grasp, and he's eager to see how well he can fight fire with fire. 

* * *

The answer is... not very well. especially when they dive-bomb the hell out of themselves just to keep him trapped here. He can still feel the burn of their flame-wings on his skin, even after its been soothed by the ever-red waters of the Styx. Whoever thought fire could fight fire must've been a fucking idiot, he thinks as he shakes the blood of the Styx free from his hair. 

"Well, well, well... the prodigal son returns," a comical voice squawked from up the hall. "With his tail between his legs!" 

"Fuck off, Griffon," Nero sniped. 

The large crow barked out an echoing laugh and bristled his violet and cyan feathers. Beneath his hovering talons, Shadow lays in a peaceful lump, deigning to open a single red eye just to see her young master's return for herself. 

"Hey, you'll regret that when you _do_ escape! Then you'll never get to see _our_ lovely faces again, eh, Shadow?" 

The lazing panther gave a limp wave of her tail and nothing more. 

Nero scoffed and marched past the latest wave of Shades crowding the corridor. Griffon and Shadow were already falling behind by hours; their tally of the newly-dead endless and ever-boring. It always surprised Nero, how the Crow of Death could still be so lively after all these eons of work, proceeding even his own father's reign. Shadow, at least, lived up to her title as the Panther of Sleep and little else. Their work, just below the importance of their lord's, wasn't exactly the most exiting fare, so he could never fault them for slacking off—especially not as harshly as his father. 

Speaking of the devil, only one looming figure at the back of the hall awaits him, backed by the ceiling-tall mural Nero had once painstakingly recreated with the finest finger paints the Underworld could offer, just to earn a mere scoff for his effort. 

His father had such impossible standards. 

"Back so soon?" the boom of a nasally voice thundered from above. 

"I thought Cerberus might start to miss me," Nero scoffed, refusing to meet that pair of piercing blue eyes that matched his own. “Didn't wanna make him upset." 

At his left and his father's right sat the ferocious creature of name, all three heads perking up at their prince's approach. 

"I don't tolerate dallying from the Shades of the lounge," his father drawled, leveling his heady glare right at Nero's brow, "let alone the _prince_ of the entire realm." 

Nero stifled a scoff by burying both hands into the fluffy fur of their resident hellhound. "I didn't ask to be second-in-line to this hellhole." 

"Clearly," Vergil motioned at the line of Shades gathered behind the boy, signaling the commencement of court. Nero glanced at the nervous faces of countless Shades ready to heft their pleas upon his father, to his eternal displeasure. But, contrary to most mortal lore, that was all things really boiled down to, down here in hell. Waiting in line, filing parchmentwork, work, work, work; all of it repetitive and indefinitely insufferable. 

The Fates had deemed all such work to be overseen by Vergil, God of the dead, Son of Sparda, and King of all the Underworld. Known by eons of names to daemons and humans alike, the most recent of which frustrated Nero to no end. 

_"In the name of_ _Urizen_ _,"_ Dante had instructed him to say, just before his first escape attempt. 

"Why the hell am I accepting it for _him_?" Nero had gasped. "I'd rather stick with Sparda." 

"It’s not for him, it's still for you," his uncle scratched his head, searching for an answer that didn't sound like utter bull. "These high and mighty types are all about titles n' shit; you know the drill." 

Nero huffed, as unbecoming of a prince as he could. "It's still stupid." 

"'Course it is, but I'm sticking my neck out just to get 'em to look your way, so it's up to you to impress 'em, alright?" 

And off Nero went. 

That felt like so long ago, but it had only been a few attempts, he thought. Already, he was starting to lose count. Under ten, at least? If he'd gone over that he was sure Griffon and Shadow wouldn't let him hear the end of it. But even after a few tries, seeing those glowing orbs of power await him in each chamber doesn't lessen his excitement. Or his anxiety, if he's completely honest. But the only ones who would know about that are the Fates, and his whole plan relied on defying them anyway. 

So he clears his throat, straightens his posture, and reaches out for the boon. 

_"Olympus, I accept this message!"_

The brightest light Nero had ever seen pierced what posed as Tartarus' sky, blinding him. He dove back, only to find the ray of light planted itself right at his feet and grew out softly, as if to calm him. With enough blinks, he was. 

"Hail, noble cousin!" a delighted voice called out. 

Nero straightened, then gawked at the sight before him: a static apparition of what appeared to be an armored woman, standing tall, yet staring vaguely through him. 

"Hello?" 

Her ears perked at his response, though she still seemed unable to place his exact position in the vast darkness of his homeland. If he were any younger, he would have stuck a hand through her form, just to see if it was real or not. Good thing his father broke him of such 'childish' habits eons ago. 

"I was quite taken aback when your uncle reached out to me," the goddess explained. "We have scarce heard word from your side of the family since your lord father rose to the throne. And we had no idea he was a father! But as delighted as I was to hear of you, I was more concerned at the plight presented to me. Hopefully, this will aid you well." 

Another burst of light grew from the boon, replacing the visage of Athena with something that pulsed with power. It could only be a mere slice—from the goddess of wisdom herself—placed in front of him on a platter! And yet, it burned brighter and more potent than anything Nero had ever beheld. 

He reaches out, just so the slightest spark can leap onto his fingers, and everything comes into focus. He doesn't know how exactly yet, but to power to find out now thrums underneath his skin. The world beyond his father's House feels within reach, and he sprints off to meet it in kind. 

* * *

Even with the blessings of Athena and her ilk at Nero's back, Tartarus isn't the easiest jog, he'll admit. It lives up to its torturous reputation more effectively than all the epics Nero had been forced to read while growing up. Those first few chambers certainly tried their damnedest to send him right back home, but he manages to reach what looks like the entrance to the mysterious staircase that Dante had told him of. 

"Once you're there, you'll be home-free to the next river," his uncle had said. 

Perhaps he should have been a bit more specific, as one door shuts behind Nero and the next refuses to open before him. 

A telltale _tsch_ echoes off the thick stone walls, and a full-body shiver passes through his spine. Sure enough, as he turns, someone's waiting for him. 

Standing between Nero and the last door of Tartarus is none other than Lady, first of the Furies. 

"Sorry, kid, I can't just let you through," she sneers. "Daddy's orders." 

"Lady, c'mon," he scoffs, strolling right up to her. But she recoiled like she had been presented with a platter of onions back in the lounge, and held up her infernal bazooka, the Kalina Ann. 

"This isn't like one of your spars, Nero," she scowled. "Only one of us is getting out of here, and only by way of the Styx." 

"I don't wanna fight you," he said sincerely. 

"Too bad," Lady tsked as she twisted her mother's weapon into its ever-shifting form. "You made your choice the second you left." 

The barrel burns bright, reflecting the full force of flame and ash in the mismatched shades of Lady's eyes. 

Nero can only dodge so many shots. 

* * *

On his next try, Nero is greeted by a flash of lightning illuminated upon pitch-black robes. 

"Not you, too!" he groaned. 

In Lady's previous spot stands Trish, second of the Furies. 

"It doesn't have to be this way, Nero," she said in that low voice of her's, on par with Credo's for the most level-headed in all the House of Sparda. She always had a way of picking just the right words to draw him out of a lost fight, an argument with his father that would go nowhere, and so on. Where Lady raged and exploded, Trish blinked and flashed between conflict with naught but a spark of her signature lightning. Rumor was Zeus himself had a hand in her creation, the few times he dared dabble in the forces of the Underworld. Other rumors were not as flattering. 

Nevertheless, she served the House of Sparda well, though she was one of few Nero had never witnessed Vergil personally reprimand. He knew from echoes through the halls that he sometimes had it out with Lady and Dante, but never Trish. He just figured her for the cool-under-pressure type—just like his father. 

Perhaps, she'll be easier to convince than Lady. 

"I just wanna leave, Trish," he pleads with his eyes more than his words. She was always more lenient with him when he was little. He could never tell exactly why. 

"I can't be the first to tell you that sentiment is for scum," she flicked her wrist and summoned a bolt of light into her hands like it was nothing, "And I won't be the last, if you keep this up." 

"Can't make me stop trying." 

Trish smirked. "Good." 

Nero swears even the spark of her brilliant smile sends a current of pain through his limbs. And light itself is much harder to escape than fire. 

* * *

By his third visit to Tartarus' final chamber, he has no need to guess. He knows exactly who awaits him inside. 

Lucia is the most befuddling of the three Furies. Firstly, she rarely speaks. Nero had thought her shy, and Dante and the others backed that theory in the way they allowed her to remain silent—even in the lounge—motioning and nodding as she returned small gestures and short sentences. Even Vergil seemed to be especially _kind_ towards her, and that meant _kind_ as in not actively admonishing her after every assignment. 

By all marks, she was a model employee of his father's, and that meant she would take Nero down with no regret or comradery. He would have to really concentrate here. It might not even be _fun_. 

"Lucia," he greets as cordially as he can. 

"Your highness," she gave him a short bow. 

"I don't suppose it would be a big deal if you just," he rolled a crook out of his shoulders with a sideways smile, "let me go?" 

"You know why I cannot do that, highness." 

"Of course," he sighs. It didn't hurt to ask, right? "Let's get this over with, then." 

She gives him a hard fight. His most difficult with any of the Furies, not that he would tell Lady or Trish. Lucia’s twin blades are nothing to sneeze at, despite their short length. But that’s exactly where Nero’s small advantage lies—in her complete lack of range. 

If there’s anything Credo’s spears and Dante’s double barrels have taught him, it’s how valuable space can be. Red Queen is the perfect length to swing between them without being touched, and he can heft just enough weight into blocks and parries that stagger her short, swift strikes. With the right swing at the right angle, the curve of his blade catches those of her own, and rips them free of her grasp. 

The Fury's twin blades go flying into the wall, shaking the ageless stone beneath their feet. 

Nero's so shocked at his own feat, Red Queen lags in his grasp, and he forgets to even press the advantage. 

"Impressive," Lucia breathes out heavily, and the very sight brands a confident grin onto the prince's jaw. 

Too heavy is that same smirk, however, that he can't wipe it off his face before she's right back in front of him with a flurry of blindingly-white feathers. 

He had forgotten her power was so different from her sisters'. 

But he definitely hadn't forgotten how harsh the cold, hard ground of the chamber felt, once she finally threw him into it. 

At least Lady and Trish had the mercy to make his previous deaths quick. He's not sure if Lucia intends to teach him the lesson his father's tasked the Furies to enforce, or if her temperament for torture is merely stronger than her sisters'. 

But as Lucia stands above him, her blades recovered and ready to strike, she seems to wait for the very dust whipped up around them to settle. 

"I know how it feels to seem... out of place," she whispered so low, he scarcely heard it over the roar of his speeding pulse. 

"You do?" Nero gaped, even as his lungs burned. But the faraway look in Lucia's bright eyes was crystal clear. "...You do." 

"Mark my words, Son of Sparda," she saluted with a flourish of her blades and a whip of her braid. "If you earn the honor of besting me, you best earn your escape from here thereafter, or you will have _more_ than your father to answer to." 

Both blades slice through his chest with a violent embrace, and the last thing he sees is the agony in a single emerald eye swiftly hidden behind a curtain of red. 

It will be many more tries before he can defeat any of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever attempt at writing Lucia! I hope it’s ok, considering my only reference of her is from the first scene of dmc2 lol. She seems very dutiful and formal, so I figured she and Vergil would be those silent kind of colleagues who coexist without speaking. I would hope we actually get to see them interact in a future game! 🙏🏼
> 
> anyway, look forward to about 15k more of this throughout spardaverse week!


	2. chthonic vitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince gains firsthand knowledge of his homeland and its citizens.

Much to his own annoyance, Nero is surprised by just how little he knows of his homeland. The whole reason he's trying to escape is due to its lack of... _homeliness_ , but it’s still been sobering to experience just how deftly the Underworld keeps its Shades trapped for all eternity. Who knew that his father's centuries of lectures would still leave so much detail out? 

He's not surprised by the number of lies, of course, but rather the tactic of them. 

Why couldn't he simply walk out of the realm, or flag down Hermes for a ride? Because the Olympians had no idea of his existence until now! And even if the quick, cool-headed God of Swiftness could be caught for a word, he only escorted folks on "special" occasions. Nero's escape, forbidden by his own father, could not be helped so directly, or without fighting a realm's worth of wretched souls tasked to stop him. 

Beyond his quest, it's interesting to hear what those same souls know of their kings, past and present. They laud the legend of Sparda, sing his praises up and down in the face of Tartarus' never-shifting sky. Vergil is spoken of only in hushed tones, as if the man can hear every word spoken within his domain—he can't, Nero knows for a fact—and is regarded with a fearful reverence. To hear their words against those from his lessons, Nero can't help but confront his own incomplete knowledge. 

Sparda was indeed the first Lord of the Underworld, Legendary Dark Knight, God of Daemons, yada, yada, yada. Guy had too many titles to count, and certainly more than he could have ever needed. No wonder the Olympians just picked one thing and stuck to it. 

He always sounded cool as all hell from the stories, and of course little Nero had wanted to be _just_ like his storied grandfather. His father sure wasn’t as stupefying or awesome, let alone nearly as _benevolent_ as the god who had gone to war in the name of mortalkind. 

Sparda had made their family name, literally and figuratively. He was all mortals or gods or those in between ever talked about. Vergil and Dante were just derivatives to those stories; smaller, less accomplished, less worthy. Needless to say, at least one of them had taken those assumptions a bit personally. Nero had caught his father mimicking the grand statues and murals of the Legendary Dark Knight on enough occasions. 

No one had ever directly answered young Nero’s questions about where his all-mighty grandfather was _now_. Only that he had been king, but then Vergil succeeded him, and Nero was next up as long as he could be a good little prince who didn’t leave the House. 

Of course, that’s one of the first rules he aspires to break. 

It’s only by Dante that Nero begins to put the pieces together, between his recent trips in and out of the house. _We didn’t spend most of our childhood together_ , he says of his twin. _At least you got to grow up with a roof over your head_ , he comments sometimes. 

Each time, the prince's tongue thrums with another question, even equipped with the bribe of ill-gotten nectar. But each time, his uncle leaps away with a fake smile and a salute. Funny how the God of Revenge only ever tended to his duties when his nephew got curious. 

Credo, his teacher in most things, and an older brother in everything but blood, clams up when approached. 

"It is not my place," he stalls. "You should know where your lord father would have me thrown if I said too much, prince." 

Odd talk from the very man who preached _fear is for the weak_. Of course, Credo is the most honorable man in the whole place, and Fates only knew how much he had grown up idolizing the man. But Nero is also a prince, and thus afforded much less fear than Credo's ever shown, even as a warrior storied almost as much as Sparda. 

Otherwise, Nero hears very little chatter amongst the lesser-ranked Shades. There’s the occasional mention of the former Queen of the Underworld, however. That it was _she_ who awoke the heart of a daemon within Sparda and inspired his crusade on behalf of humans. She ruled by his side, bore him twin sons, and departed the throne for their eldest to ascend. 

But did she want nothing to do with her grandchild? Were daemons simply raised differently than the haloed gods on Olympus? 

Nero briefly thinks that if they’re dead, or simply traveling, he’ll find them out on his quest. Plenty of mortals and gods alike ventured on quests, if the epics were to be believed, so they could be on their own, right? That had to explain why he'd never known any family besides his father and uncle. Somewhere between Tartarus and Asphodel, or surely Elysium, they’d have to be. If there’s anything he’s learned so far, it’s that the Underworld provides plenty of places to hide. And he's been having quite a time playing hide-and-seek with certain gods and the questions they bring. 

At least, that's what he _had_ thought, up until he found the note. 

Hidden amongst the typically impeccable desk of his lord father, on a rare occasion he’d left to tend to his kingdom in person, is an old roll of parchment. Written in an elegant hand Nero’s eyes had never seen before; it reads very unlike the countless lists of the dead: 

_Vergil,_

_How you tolerate an endless vigil over your father's land, I'll never understand. He seldom visited it himself, and told me very little that I didn't ask for. I hope you are doing well, nonetheless. You've given me no notice otherwise, but I wish you would. Dante answers all my messages with a swiftness only the likes of Hermes could replicate! If I have done something wrong, please send word. Your silence worries me tremendously. You should know that your brother has told me of Nero, and I long to see him for myself. I was rather shocked at what he knew of the boy's mother, unless you'd be willing to elaborate further? I beg of you, Vergil: a family should be united, more so than those here on Olympus claim to be. Why you insist on this silence is beyond my understanding, but I hope you know that you have it, regardless._

_Mother_

A grandmother... _and_ a mother? Vergil had told him to this face that he had no mother, that he and Dante were the only family he had. It wasn't a stretch, exactly—Aphrodite had described her own miraculous origin enough—yet his mother not only _exists_ , but others _know_ of her. Is she alive? Does this grandmother he'd never met know more, too? Wherever she was, she clearly hadn't yet given up on Vergil, but he had on her. Why? 

_Why, why, why?!_

Nero had found Dante first, however, his tongue twisted in angry and agonized knots that couldn't form any words beyond staggered gasps. 

"Oh, shit," Dante's face turned immediately, all his comedy and cockiness disappearing into thin air. "How'd you find out?" 

Nero just wordlessly turned over the note, and his uncle's face paled more than their pallid skin should make possible. 

Dante's sigh echoed out through the dead halls as he put the parchment down. "Yeah, well, you know how bad your dad is at talking," 

"Who—what is he keeping me from?" Nero stammered, a furious heat rising from his flaming toes up to his ears. "My mother? Sparda? Who else is out there that I don't know about?" 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, kid, calm down--" 

"Don't tell me to calm down!" he screamed, despite the tears welling up in his eyes. Gods, he hadn't cried like that since his very first spar, as Credo often reminded him. "I've lived by all of his rules this whole damn time and I'm sick of it! I'm _sick_ of all these lies!" 

Nero stormed off then, for the first time, only to find the open window in his courtyard that he'd somehow never noticed before. He stuck his head out just far enough, and he could see the ground below, _outside_ the House of Sparda! If he could just squeeze through, maybe he could... 

But then Dante returned, shouted at him to _wait_ , and Nero had almost jumped out then and there. 

There was a note in his uncle's voice, one that was rare and serious, but nothing like his twin's usual tone. Nero could count the number of times he'd heard it before on one hand. If Dante knew how frustrated he was, and still cared to chase after him, it must be worth something. A few minutes, at least, until he lost his patience again. 

So Nero had listened, and they made the deal: Dante would help him escape hell, literal and figurative, as long as he waited for a signal. 

He certainly hadn't expected the signal to be Athena herself, beckoning the rest of her family to help him along the way, but he would not turn his cheek to the Olympians, of all gods! Somehow, Dante had convinced them of Nero's wish to join them—erring on the side of a little white lie, to be sure—but neither were about to correct them. The core of the Nero’s goal is still true to the script on the Minor List of Fated Prophecies: _The Prince of the Underworld will break free from his father’s domain, by any means necessary._

With every escape attempt since, the painful truth of his father's note thrums in the grip of Nero’s sword. Not only does he have a grandmother, and probably a mother, but his father has deliberately kept them apart for his entire life! The nerve! He had always known nothing intimated the man, but this exceeded all that he thought him capable. 

It's just the latest cruelty befit of a king of hell, a horribly kept father, and now, a defiantly-motivated son. 

Nero's not sure he'll be able to get far enough, let alone fast enough. Gods help him, he'll keep trying until he finds the whole truth. 

* * *

Asphodel is so full of surprises, it's very river overflows with them. Literally. Nero can find so few denizens that aren't actively trying to kill him, he wonders if any poor Shades even reside there at all. Tartarus almost seems more hospitable by comparison. 

The other disappointment is that his flaming feet don't even offer protection from the Phlegathon's burbling magma—yet another curse inherited from his father that he can't use to his advantage. At least they still _felt_ neat. 

The third comes when the Fates prove him wrong with the form of a single voice, flowing softly down the riverbanks to his battle-worn ears. 

_Singing?_ he wonders. _Out here? In the middle of the most sweltering river in the Underworld?_

His confusion grows as the small raft drops him off at a little island, and no enemies appear. Not even a Gorgon or those gods-damned Bloodless. 

The serenade only echoes louder as he wanders the isle, its tune leading him straight into a wall—fortified against heat and daemons alike. Nero's shoulder slump. He'd certainly been taught manners, and tried against every bone in his body to avoid following his uncle's wild example, but there was only one way through this, and whoever awaited him on the other side probably wasn't going to like it. 

A single dash and he zips right through stone, his flaming feet scarcely missing the hem of a long, flowing skirt. 

"A visitor!" the singer gasped, and Nero leapt as far back into the wall as he could. 

Warming not just his feet, but his cheeks, stood the form of a Shade who must've been a nymph in life, if the branches and flowers about her hair stood for anything. 

"Uhh, s-sorry," Nero stammered with an itch about his nose, "I was just passing through, and I heard your singing..." 

"Don't apologize!" the nymph cried out, inching ever closer to his corner of shame. "I just sing to pass the time; I never expected to see another soul so close to the river." 

Was it the beautiful shade of amber that bloomed in the roots of her hair, or the rosy light bouncing off the Phlegathon that complimented her skin so nicely? Nero found his heart racing faster than any of Hermes' boons had ever pushed him. 

"Yeah, I'm not just any passing soul, you see," he crooned, even as his mind drew a blank. 

She smiled and it just about melted the rest of him, too. "No, I suppose you aren't." 

The singer motioned over to a large counter that burbled and roared with the very same flame of the river's lava. And, as Nero studied it more, it seemed to be harnessed expertly into the form of a stove. It held more food than Nero had ever seen in the House's lounge, because, well, nobody in the Underworld _needed_ food. But, as Griffon often liked to joke, mortal habits died hard. 

In front of the whole buffet, the singer spread her arms and beckoned him closer. 

"Please, help yourself to something! I never let _anyone_ go hungry in life, and I don't intend to start in death." 

Nero grinned with all the gratitude he could muster, despite the warmth on his cheeks that refused to simmer down. He could only duck his nose as the kindly nymph guided him down the line, explaining the makings and benefits of her many offerings. Nero chooses the one flavored with pomegranate; it's familiar to his palette, and he's not sure how many more surprises his turning stomach can handle at the moment. 

"I'm Kyrie, by the way," she tells him as he's cleaning his plate. 

Even her _name_ sounds beautiful, his heart sings even as he chokes on his last bite. 

"Nero," he replies with a very light handshake. 

"It was nice to meet you," she all-but-sang. Then she averted those bright brown eyes away. "And I hope the river brings you this way again." 

"As long as I can hear that lovely singing, I'll be sure to find you." 

A braver man would've winked, a prince would have had more to say, and a god would've kissed her hand. But he's still trying to live up to any one of them at a time, so, they just share an awkward giggle as he dashes back through her wall and to the raft that awaits his escape. 

Nero dies in the very next chamber, as visions of food and freckles dance through his mind to the loveliest soundtrack his ears have ever heard. And he can't find the heart to be even the smallest bit upset. 

* * *

For ages, there's been an empty desk to the right of Vergil's. Once upon a time, a little prince had played there, joyfully mimicking his father's endless busywork until he was whisked away by yet another round of lessons. Said father had never _specifically_ ordered the boy away, and countless hours had been spent in relative quiet between the two. Thinking back on it, Nero realized, that had probably been the most peaceful time of their entire relationship, yet they rarely spoke or interacted during it. 

When Nero had stopped using the desk at all, preferring to be anyplace but his father's side, it was designated as the House Contractor's space. Though, in more recent times, it more resembled a revolving door than a desk. 

Now there's a sack of gemstones burning a hole in his tunic, and Asphodel has been causing him heaps and hydras of trouble. Surely there's some poor Shade out there qualified to help? If not of his father's heavens-high standards, then of his own? He still had some kind of power in this house, whether his lord father cared to admit it or not. 

Credo manages to pass him just the piece of parchment he needs, and with gems in one hand and a steady voice, he summons them in a burst of smoke and power wielded only by the gods. 

"Contractor," the prince began, but the Shade raised a smoking pipe right into his face. 

"Call me that again and you’ll be paying for my wares _long_ into your reign, tough guy.” 

Nero flinches, but the Prince of the Underworld shouldn’t flinch, gods damn it. Absently, he is immensely glad his father has decided to be gone from the hall this instant. “Sorry.” 

The Contractor just narrows her eyes at him, but the suspicion leaves as quickly as it came. "Name’s Nico," she introduces herself with a fiendish smirk. "And I’m the finest artist your daddy could find in all four realms!" 

"Artist?" Nero gaped, mouth and eyes wide. "Shouldn’t you be carving some marble, then?" 

"Art isn’t just _art_ , y'know! It can be anything a talented hand, like mine,” she waved her ghostly hands up, and even in death, Nero could make out years of calluses upon them, “works hard on.” 

The prince blinked. “Sure. Listen, I’ve got some spare gemstones, and my father’s too busy to bother you, but I could use some help out there...” 

“Ahh,” she twirled her pipe about, “I catch your drift. As long as you’ve got the cash, I can get you a hand.” 

Nero doesn’t know just how literal she means. But she waved him over on his next return with a glint in her eyes he didn’t know a dead woman could have. 

“I have a hand,” he gawks as he raises the scaled hide of his right arm, its blue glow flashing bright enough to spite Nico’s assumptions. 

“Yeah, but that’s all daemonic shit,” she waved him off. “You haven’t even touched the _real_ godly stuff.” 

From behind her back, she produced another set of blueprints, depicting something that looked like a glove to his untrained eye, but what tons of lines and notes hinted otherwise. Were those sparks coming out of the wrist? A shield formed by the expanded plates of a fist? 

As he delved closer, enthralled by the intricacy, she yanked the parchment out from under his grasp. He frowned and reached for it, but she drew farther away with a finger wag not unlike his father’s. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chided. “Cash first.” 

“All the gemstones in Tartarus not enough for you?” 

Nico hummed with mock humor. “Maybe Asphodel. Or Elysium— _ooh_ , I hear they have the stuff just sitting around up there!” 

Nero scoffed and marched away. 

But sure enough, the next time he walks by, she just tosses him a wrapped package as if it’s a piece of meat, and winks as she lights another pipe. He’s smart enough to wait until he’s in his room to open it, and he’s not let down: It’s a gauntlet, like the fists of Balrog that Dante _still_ wouldn’t let him touch, but sea green and shimmering, like Poseidon's infamous trident. 

He’s unsure, but it slips over the scales of his arm like a glove, firm and comfortable. On a whim, he reaches for the Devil Bringer’s native power, and sure enough, the glowing fist responds just outside his grasp. Another pull, and the gauntlet glows with its own light, its own power. 

Then it bursts out, plates shifting and growing like magic, sending sparks flying farther than his Devil Bringer ever could. 

“It’s called Gerbera,” the Contractor smirks the next time Nero stops at her desk. 

He gets all the way to Elysium with it, without even getting winded, for crying out loud. Then he orders as many more as he can, in as many different shapes and powers as she can think of. 

The face of Nico's pride lights up the House of Sparda brighter than the fire in her pipe. 

* * *

His father's pen raced across parchment with a practiced hand Nero only ever scowled at. Nevan and the other high-ranking daemons had told him of all the battles and lords that had to be fought in order for the God of the Dead to rise to his position as the Underworld's emperor, heralding their master's glory as his subjects ought to. And Nero had only been so young and naïve for so long. Even then, while Vergil toiled away at a stack of parchment that never seemed to shrink, always shooing his son away or outright scolding him, Nero learned that given the choice, his father would always choose work over all else. 

Especially his only son. 

Where muses and poets told tales of endless battles and awesome wars, Vergil was quick to dash Nero's hopes of the same. For a while, he had even made penmanship a priority for his son's lessons. At least in that discipline, Nero could tell the man was serious, but his hand still cramped at the sight of his father's feathered pen moving about. 

On this pass-thru, the long red-yellow feather actually slows to a stop. And from the corner of his eye, so does Nero. 

"Why do you insist on pursuing this..." Vergil curled his pen through the air, searching for the word, "folly?" 

"Sorry I didn't wanna be the prince of paperwork, _Father_ ," Nero bit out with every fang he could muster. It was only a couple, but still. He hadn't checked the Mirror of Night in a while. 

"I've told you countless times that stewardship of all the Underworld entails could never be entirely encompassed by mere words." 

"You sure coulda used less words to say it." 

"I always knew you lacked the focus to take any amount of this seriously," Vergil scoffed. "Just like your uncle." 

Nero rolled his eyes. "At least Dante gives a shit!" 

Vergil's perpetually-furrowed brows knotted together even tighter. "Of what?" 

"Anything! Even his flatbread! You don't even eat your own _damned_ fruit!" 

Nero stormed past the desk, dragging the tablecloth behind him and the countless bowls of offerings with it. Priceless vases and confiscated bottles of nectar shattered instantly, soaking jeweled pomegranates and dark grapes with its golden drops. 

Patty scurries up in a rush of high squeals and alarmed hissing, bringing a rush of blood to Nero's pallid face, but he can't bear to halt mid-stomp towards his room. 

* * *

Upon his next return to the receiving hall, his father is nowhere to be found. 

_Good_ , Nero thinks. His feet still ache from a few stumbles through Asphodel’s overflowing magma, and he lacks the energy to rush past his father’s usual judgement. 

Griffon and Shadow barely acknowledge him as he passes, and Trish and Lady are too busy lounging about to offer him anything more than a wave. 

But Nero's not too tired to miss the flicker of a gorgon’s head in the corner; her cleaning never finished, never up to standard. 

“Hey, Patty,” he waves more in warning than in greeting. 

“Your—your highness!” She shrieked and bowed as much as her lack of a neck would allow. Yet her flawless blonde—Curls? Snakes? Hair? He'd have to ask her what she preferred to think of them as—bounced in tune with her high voice, and Nero couldn’t help but sigh. 

He scratched the back of his neck as it burned with shame. “Listen, I’m sorry for leaving that mess behind last time. My old man just... sets me off sometimes, y’know?” 

Patty’s infamous eyes went wide, each facet of those sapphire-like gems catching every ray of light to be found in hell. Nero could see how her eyes captured the attention of her victims so effectively, but he wondered how on earth someone with her bashfulness even _would_. 

“It’s n-no problem, prince! Really, it gives me more to do!” 

“But that’s just it—you shouldn’t have to. My father has plenty of subjects to do his bidding, and you shouldn’t be the only one cleaning up this place.” 

“That’s very kind of you, your highness, but I don’t mind as much as you may think, honest!” 

“Still, I’ll try not to make many more messes for you, but don’t be afraid to ask for help, okay? I should probly help you with the next one.” 

“P-prince, you don’t—“ 

“I don’t, but I should,” he turned away before she could get her snakes into another knot. “And Patty?” 

She twirled around fast enough to start a twister. “Yes?” 

“Just call me Nero.” 

All he heard back was a shriek high enough to hit the ceiling of Earth itself, followed by the loud SMACK of stone crashing into stone. He allowed himself one small chuckle on his way to collapsing upon his bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> figures the first time I write about Nero and Patty being friends is in a big convoluted AU lol
> 
> this was a long one (the other ones will not be as long, I promise), but I hope it explained a lot of threads I left hanging in the previous chapter. its been a lot of fun figuring out which characters match which in both universes, I could write about them forever! but I also won't, bc this has already gotten so far away from the one-shot it started as :///


	3. boiling blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero begins to realize he’s collected more problems than he started with.

The Champion's Arena is bold as it is brash. Countless attempts ago, Nero had spotted it in Elysium’s horizon all the way from its entrance, but now that he stands in front of its very doors, it seems taller than the vista itself. 

So long ago, he had considered the feat of defeating one of the three Furies almost impossible. Even standing here, far past all three of them _and_ the Lernaean Hydra's many heads, he's stopped by a mere building. He's the _prince_ of this and the other three lands, he has to remind himself. He has power here, and anywhere damn else he chooses. Only the Fates could stop him, and even if all three of them are waiting in there, he'll give them a fight for their eternal lives. 

The door rises, he sprints forward and has to dig his feet into the shiny floor to stop before his opponent. 

"Hey, kid, what took ya so long?" a voice teases. 

That same rhythmic lit had contrasted against his father's nasally drone for his entire life. But it belonged in the House, not _here_. 

"Dante?!" Nero's jaw quickly picks itself up and curls into a snarl. " _You're_ the Champion of Elysium?" 

His uncle merely winked with a two-fingered salute. Around them, the arena stood ready and eager for a fight. _Their_ fight. 

“This is a joke,” Nero scoffed and scanned the crowd. Surely Lady or Trish had to be toying with him. Or maybe even his father was hiding somewhere amongst the Shades. 

"Hey, it's not too often that my brother asks me for a favor," his uncle explained, "and it's been too long since we sparred, don't'cha think?" 

"I think this'll be a bit more interesting than a spar, old man." 

Dante smirked. "You wanna make it _real_ interesting?" He snapped his fingers, unleashing a spark of red light that grew into the form of a Shade. A Shade of exact size and build of the God of Revenge himself, even summoning a sword of its own to hand. 

Nero snorted. "Taking a page outta Father's book, huh? Doesn’t seem like a fair fight." 

"Hey, I had a doppelgänger before him, y'know! Just ask Lady!” 

The prince rolls his eyes and tightens his grip on the Red Queen. Two versus one sure wasn't going to be easy, but he'd learned long ago that fairness wasn't a virtue native to his family's realm. 

Even Dante, in doing the opposite of everything his twin embraced, still supported Vergil’s reign unquestionably. Being the fun uncle didn’t automatically make him the lenient uncle, as Nero had learned as a godling. Any subject that got remotely serious was dropped like Dante’s ever-growing hat collection. 

But unlike his taste for sore subjects, Dante rarely drops his guard. 

Nero knows, because he’s having the time of his long life just trying to _land_ a hit. Every strike misses or gets parried in the ground, driving the prince and his flame-fueled sword up the walls of the arena. Even the Devil Bringer bounces off harmlessly, boiling his blood like only the Phlegethon could. 

“You cooled off yet, kid?” 

Nero growls, not expecting his teeth to cut off into involuntary chattering from a wave of ice rolling his way. He dodges the next, but Dante shakes Cerberus' ice-blessed form until he exhausts it, the infernal chill cutting right into the prince’s flamin’ feet. 

“Can’t you just let me go?” Nero pled. 

His uncle actually stopped for a real moment. “Hey, if you can beat me, getting outta here’ll be easy.” 

“And taking a dive for your favorite nephew would be easier!” 

Dante just sighed. “These things gotta stay in the family. Dragging the big guys too far into it will just piss _everyone_ off.” 

“Why shouldn’t I? They're already on my side!” Nero reaches his bringer out as far as he can, yet his uncle remains safely out of reach. 

Another tsk. “Trust me, kid, you don't want too much of their help.” 

“Then _tell_ me!” 

Dante glares, but Nero can only see Vergil in those steely blue eyes. They were identical, after all. It had just been so hard to believe before, and even tougher to see. 

“That, you’re gonna have to ask your father, kid.” 

Nero roared as he threw all of his strength into a fully-exceeded swing, just to see his uncle throw up a single hand. Red Queen’s flame seemingly burns out into thin air and then, with but a flick of Dante’s bare wrist, the fire comes barreling back into Nero’s face. 

The Styx boils as it pulls the prince’s heated blood back into its embrace. 

* * *

As bustling as his social life has become, Nero quickly learns that nectar doesn't loosen all tongues equally. 

At first, he simply couldn't find the time to drink it himself. It didn't provide any godlier strength to his escapes, so he figured sharing would befit his station as prince, perhaps. Was this that "diplomacy" crap his father sometimes lamented? Was he not doing his part by keeping the Shades and Chthonic citizens of the Underwood appeased while he ransacked the realms? 

Vergil's response is little more than a glare and stiff grunt. 

Nico won't take nectar as payment or even friendly offering—her only valid tender is gems, swears, or pipes. Dante can't get enough of the stuff, of course, but Nero knew better than to overindulge his indulgent uncle, especially in light of their recent "spars." Even Agni and Rudra have a taste for it, though they charge him in kind for a few good fights in between his escape attempts. Credo doesn't outright discourage him, so he doesn't stop. But that's exactly where his attention gets caught. 

Of the Shade he's known the longest throughout his immortal life, Nero knows little, and the man himself has said even less. Each time he had thought to ask his teacher something personal, Credo ordered him to earn it, and needless to say, the prince had yet to win. 

But there's something about that ever-down-turned face that bugs him, something set into all those firm lines that only wavered within rare smiles and hard-earned praise, though he has no idea why it suddenly bugs him so. 

Then he stumbles across Kyrie one day, her flowing auburn willow branches of hair let down from its usual stalk, and his brain fries like the food on her stove. 

_She looks just like Credo_ , the Fates-supplied thought rings throughout his mind. The slight downturn of her brows as she frowned at a boiling pot, determination set like a fire in her brown eyes. He'd grown up looking at both on the face of another. 

"Nero?" she asks of the paleness growing on his face. 

"I-I'm fine," he assured her, even as he slumped into the lone seat of her tiny room. Kyrie busied herself with preparing him a plate of her latest fare and he sorted through the rapid beating of his heart. Could it just be a coincidence? There were countless Shades populating the Underworld; what were the odds of two looking alike? Distant family like his own could seem identical but scarcely know of each other, surely? 

But a tired part of his psyche, and Psyche herself, knows that the Fates love to play such games with immortals like himself. 

"You've, uh, never mentioned any family, huh?" 

Kyrie set his food down, though neither even looked at it as her face fell. "Well, you can see that I'm alone here, and even my living memories of them aren't abundant, so I've had to make my own." 

"With your singing?" 

She nodded, though it was a small, somber sight. Nero couldn't bear it; here was a spark of life trapped on a river of magma amidst quiet solitude. She always showed up at the perfect time in all his escape attempts, re-energizing him like even some of his cousins' boons couldn't (not that he was ungrateful to them, but, still). 

"Did you sing in life, too?" 

"Those were my most treasured times," she smiled slightly and his heart soared. "I was taught by my mother, and performed for my brother and his men before battle." 

That steeled the nerves in Nero's spine. "Your brother was a, uh, warrior?" 

"A general. He was very brave, but even the bravest men of war are never long for the world..." 

Silently, the prince cursed Ares. "I'm sorry I brought it up." 

Still, Kyrie fretted with more nobility than some of the gods Nero knew. "No, you were just curious, and I'm sure there must be many Shades with stories much more painful than mine." 

She goes back to her humming and he goes back to his eating. Luckily, her song is just as sweet as her pomegranate ambrosia, even the third, fourth, and fifth times. Nero's lost count of how much nectar he's gifted the nymph, he says for her recipes, rather than the rosy bloom on her cheeks as she accepts. 

"Nero..." she murmurs just as he finishes off his meal. "You don't speak of a family, either." 

The prince just about dashed back into the river, right then and there. 

The nymph reaches for his brow, even as it quickly shines with sweat. "Your appearance is very unique, even here." 

"Eh, probably not," Nero fake-scoffed, as his hands nervously brushed through his white hair. "It's a common... look." 

"Not where I'm from," Kyrie hummed thoughtfully. 

At that moment, the prince prayed to all of his distant cousins for a tunic to yank over his hair. It was unmistakable proof of his relation to Vergil and Dante, the Gods of the Dead and Revenge, respectively, followed by Nero; God of Fates-Only-Knew-What, if anything at all. It was obvious how his failure to figure it out on his own was of constant disappointment to his father, and even Dante failed to feign optimism about it these days. 

Just another, smaller reason why he keeps going and getting himself killed, all for the mere chance to figure out just who the hell he _really_ is. 

"Oh!" she finally gasped, her doe eyes looking straight into him. "You're Lord Vergil’s son! The prince!" 

"Kyrie, please--" he surged forward, ready to pull her out of a bow if need be. 

But the nymph simply relaxed her posture, hands clasped together at her chest, as her shock melted into a graceful smile. 

"Your Royal Majesty," she crowned him with just a small nod of her chin. 

It was better than any alternative, Nero could guess, but he still stood on all of his flamin' toes, ready for a magma waterfall to come crashing down his back. 

Kyrie just kept smirking. Like nothing had changed. "I had a feeling you were special, you know." 

Nero kept scratching his nose, half to mask his blush and half to peek between his fingers in shame. 

"I don't really have the same, uh, _air_ as the rest of my relatives, y'know?" 

"No, I meant that you have such a warm heart, and an eager hand, surely you must be the form of something powerful." 

And just that, Nero's hands fall slack at his sides. What can he say to something that sounds like a blessing from the Olympians themselves? 

"...you really think so?” he finally asks. 

Another warm smile bloomed on Kyrie's lips. "I _know_ so. That's the Nero who's been so kind to a mere Shade like me." 

The prince could just reach for the tuft of hair falling in front of her ear, curling perfectly around the apple of her cheek... but he's not that bold, and the heat of the Phlegethon and the stove become too much, from his toes all the way up to his ever-red brow. 

Then he can only see the face of Credo, flying at him in a rage, and he leaps back through the wall. 

"Looks like the river's calling me back," he murmurs. 

"It's okay," Kyrie blinks down from her little window. "I'll always be here." 

_Of course_ , Nero thought, even as he dragged himself to the raft and waved goodbye. Tearing people apart was what the Underworld did best, after all. That's why he's made it his quest to find what little shreds of family he has. And that's why he won't let this go, either. 

Once the hydra sends him back home—that damned thing and its _damned_ heads—he saunters right up to the guard post, leans into the wall, and asks: 

"You have any family, Credo?" 

The warrior scarcely blinks at him. "It would be irrelevant to you and your quest, my prince." 

Nero hefted the Red Queen onto his shoulder, leaning into its firm weight for support and just a bit of confidence. At worst, his trusty sword would be handy to block any hits Credo could throw. At best, they’d be able to have a good laugh. 

Kyrie's lovely freckles and dusty blush had taught him to have such hope. 

"See, you'd think so, but there's this Shade I keep running into in Asphodel that I just can't stop thinking about, and I was wondering if you could help me?" 

"...in which way? Has your lord father charged a new, powerful Shade with stopping you?" 

Nero scoffed. "Nah, they're not really the fighting type. More like a crafty, generous one." 

Credo blanched, all the hard lines in his face scrunching up with confusion. "Then, I fail to see how I may be of help to you, prince." 

"She's a nymph, right? And she's got this reddish hair, brown eyes, and a little sprinkling of freckles that are just the _cutest_ \--" 

A spear stops at his neck, a fist clenches harshly around his shoulder, and he's trapped in a cage made of the strongest warrior mankind has known in the last century. Nero had expected such a reaction, but it still sent a bolt of fear racing up his spine as jarringly as Zeus' lightning. 

"How did you find her?" Credo growled, low and fierce. 

"It was just an accident! The river took me to her!" 

"What has she said to you?" 

"N-not much! I just had a hunch! She never even said your name." 

That seemed to appease the warrior enough to release his spear and allow breath to race back into Nero's lungs, not that he needed it. A thin line of blood still marked the spot, falling down his collarbone and staining his tunic. 

"Speak of this to no one." 

"C'mon Credo, she's family, right? Don't you wanna see her?" 

“I said, _speak of this no more!_ " 

His mentor, his ally, his friend, marches off with the firm grace of a solider. Nero can only hope he didn't just ruin everything between them. 

It's all he can do to find himself a seat in the lounge and just dwell. Few Shades mill around, even fewer care to bother him. Morrison, the Wretched Broker, even seems to shoot him a pitiful look from the corner. 

Only Patty is brave enough to inhabit the same space, if only because it's her actual job. She flits about, complaining of dust on the counters and pantries, lamenting the lack of a consistent chef. There's a work order for a bar addition that Nero's been meaning to surprise her with, but Nico wants more gems than he can count for it, and it would take a lifetime of pilfering the realms just to get it. But even then, who would serve it? What use was a lounge with an empty kitchen? 

Then, as if a candle burns next to his temple, his mind blazes alight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nero: no fear  
> Dante: ROYALGUARD  
> Nero: one fear
> 
> i'm a little mad at myself for not using agni and rudra in the arena, honestly, but they both just seemed more like skellys to me, and the dante fight is supposed to be a bigger deal for nero in the long run, so?? sorry but also i had sound reasoning, i swear!
> 
> also, the arena fight does do a good job of training you for the final battle, so i figure dante would use that justification for himself. (also, refusing his brother's orders would just result in a bigger fight at the house lmao) if it seems like fighting nero while also helping him is counterproductive, thats the point! and its kinda like the trials of the gods in-game, too! there's so many levels to this stuff!


	4. stubborn defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero reaches an impasse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *content warning for amputation and blood in the last couple paragraphs, especially if a certain early scene from DMC5 is triggering for you

Nero is up to something. 

He's never raced between the halls of the House so quickly, with such purpose. It's almost frightening to think of what must have lit a fire under his robes, now. 

Vergil does not allow himself that wonder. 

Yet the sight of his blue and red-flashing son is unmistakable as he darts between the Contractor’s desk and the lounge, from the west hall to east and back, distracting all his loyal employees along the way. He should chew the boy out for it, but... 

He finds that he cannot. Nero does not often have such purpose, even for the sparring he loved so much. Credo’s reports on their training remain positive, despite the fact that his training now takes place _outside_ the blasted House. The boy even paid for work orders right out of his own pockets! With gems pilfered straight from his father's troves, of course, but said gems went right back into the House regardless. 

Perhaps, with an aeon or so, the boy would realize how fruitless his efforts to escape truly were. Then, he could see exactly how much more fruitful his efforts for the realm actually were. 

If making a real prince of the Underworld out his son required countless deaths at the hands of his citizens, so be it. He had no such time to teach the boy himself, regardless. 

This... _arrangement_ would do well enough for the moment. 

Until Nero goes as far as no Shade or god has gone since Orpheus himself. And that poor soul was still due to serve centuries in Tartarus for the attempt. 

Cerberus goes to his post, with his master's keen foresight to be wary of what gods would dare interfere with the loyal gatekeeper this time. But when he does sense the canine's movement... nothing else happens. A Lord of the Underworld would be able to sense discord at the edge of his realm, but where there should have been a fight, there is none. The last barrier between Nero and the surface is gone, and the boy has yet to emerge from the Styx again. 

Vergil can’t unsheathe the Yamato fast enough. 

* * *

"Oh," Nero gasps, and all the breath that had been quick to escape into the cold air flattens into nothing. "... _of course_." 

Vergil's unsurprising, unimpressed, unhappy form blocks the last doorway ahead. 

He should've known, but a none-too-small part of himself didn't think his father would care enough to bother. Yet there the king of the Underworld stands, his grand three-tailed cloak curling in defiance of the whistling winds. 

"I must admit," Vergil began, not even facing the boy, "I never thought it would come to this. But now I see I was a fool to assume Dante and Cerberus wouldn't go soft on you." 

Nero felt a dim laugh rattle through him. "Never thought you'd call yourself a fool, I gotta say." 

"I keep reminding you you've much to learn, including just how cold and cruel the surface world can be." 

To illustrate his point, Vergil summons his swords of name, glittering like deadly icicles amidst the snow-covered ground. 

Nero grit his teeth. "Oh, yeah, there's plenty I wanna know—starting with who the hell is my mother?!" 

"As always, you must earn everything you want." 

Finally, they lunge at each other, the Yamato meeting its younger contemporary for the first time. The slick, thin edge should have been disadvantaged against Red Queen's width and flame, but Nero's sword does not have a legend behind its might, especially anywhere near the katana wielded by two underworld kings before him. 

Vergil's light-quick and razor-thin strikes are a fright to any and all mortals, but a frustration to other gods. Nero grits his teeth with each clash and barely has time to recover before his father's sword bears down on him again and again-- 

In a burst of rage, he rears back and swings the Devil Bringer forward, its ghostly claw catching the katana easily. 

Vergil glowers and yanks himself free. He retaliates with a barrier of summoned swords, all-encompassing in their defense. 

When Nero swings his daemonic fist again, the swords sear pain up his arm and force him back to Red Queen. Still, the prince shatters the glass-like swords as quickly as he can, even as his father leisurely readies his next offense. 

"What have you been told?” Vergil taunts. “That she was mortal? That you were cursed, the moment you were born?" 

Nero swings too fast, his swipe going wild. "Shut up!" 

"And here I thought you wanted answers," Vergil tsks with another strike. 

The prince roars with all his daemonic blood, unleashing a sound more suited to Cerberus than a god. Even in the inhuman face of his son, followed by fire and steel, the Lord of the Underworld has time to smirk with his own set of fangs. 

Time, as Nero belatedly realizes, is yet another power his father holds over him and all of the dead. 

And yet, it all happens so fast. 

Shimmers of blue light cast over the battlefield, and Nero tenses for another storm of summoned swords. Diving behind a snow-capped boulder should give him the cover he needs, even if his father adjusts his aim. But unlike any of his opponents thus far, Vergil does not fight predictably. 

A hand grasps at his right arm—the scaled arm he's had ever since his first spar as a godling, born of Credo's own hand in their training. Nero still couldn't forget his mentor's incredulous expression as they both realized he bled the redblood of mortals. It had imbued him with a new strength, one his father and uncle even lacked, one that would go on to mark him differently from them. One that had remained with him, throughout his many previous trials and deaths. 

All it takes is a mere twist, and the arm is gone. 

His back meets a searing cold that melts under his flamin' feet. Yet even as his father stands above, his back to his only son, Nero's thoughts are consumed. _What did the mortals call this cold, while it was also so wet?_ He reaches out for the word, only to lift a bleeding stump toward his father's back, just as the navy cloak blows back and reveals the Devil Bringer, still glowing with might. 

The cold recedes until only the cool wash of the Styx remains. 

He almost doesn't want to get out. He'll just lay there, basking in the river of blood and its grip on his very fate, never to leave the realm. Like a child refusing to get out of the bath, or a spoiled prince lounging in the resplendent fountains he'd commissioned from Nico. 

There is so much he could do, instead of putting himself through all of hell, just to face the imitable form of his father and all of his painful lessons. But that's exactly what Vergil would want, wouldn't he? 

Nero reaches to his right, and his Devil Bringer is there, good as new. As if it was never gone. 

He climbs to his feet slowly, flames burning anew beneath them, and brushes the blood from his hair. The last of the surface's blistering air leaves his lungs, replaced by the Underworld's stale dust, as a stubborn oath slips past his lips: 

_"Again."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't think i've ever seen someone beat hades on their first try, besides insanely talented speedrunners, so this is me sticking with that. he's gotta build his way back up, just like the rest of us did!


	5. privileged status

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero wields his power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *another mild content warning for assisted suicide in Dante's section, tho idk how to really describe it in the context of this game where death is the point and "throwing" a run like that doesn't hold the same gravity as a gameplay mechanic?? but still, if you feel sensitive to casual speech about it, don't feel bad about skipping it.

Credo is Nero's first stop, because he was his first instructor in so much: if he wants to make a plan, let alone enact it, he needs to know where to start. 

"Shouldn't you be in Elysium?" 

Credo nearly drops his spear. 

"Pardon me?" 

"You're the greatest warrior down here," Nero states casually, "so why aren't you in Elysium?" 

"I chose to enter your father’s employ instead." 

"Why?” 

"It’s a great honor, and I would prefer to spend my death being just a productive as I was in life, rather than waste away in those fields." 

“Well, if it were up to me, I’d say you deserve better than Elysium. And _then_ some.” 

Credo hummed. “That’s a kind thought, my prince, but I’m afraid infernal pacts are bound by your father, eternally.” 

_Are they?_ Nero merely nods and hums, never quite taking his eyes away from his mentor. Wordlessly, he takes off for his next escape, not even waiting for a goodbye or good luck. 

It is his job to be aware of any and all happenings in the House of Sparda while his lord works, and yet, Credo can’t honestly make anything of the suspicious glint in the prince’s bright eye. 

* * *

Secondly, Nero crosses his fingers that the Fates will be kind to him in Asphodel, because he cannot control the river as much as he can hope it takes him to his heart's desire. 

And there she is. 

"Kyrie!" 

"Nero!" 

They meet in an embrace. He doesn't blush as madly these days, and he likes to think only the magma was to blame. It's so much easier to speak frankly with Kyrie, now that neither of them must hide in half-truths and painful memories. A soul like her deserves a death at least as pleasant as her life, if not more? And with the Fates at Nero’s back, he will eagerly do all that they allow him to. 

"You know," he starts, "you're the best cook I've ever met." 

"You don't need to flatter me, your royal majesty." 

"I'm not! I mean, the only other cook I know is the Shade my father drags out of Erebus every now and then, but all they know how to do is cut onions." 

Kyrie grimaced, but even her most sour expression quickly melted into a smile. 

"So I was thinking," Nero continued, as the nymph put down the plate and added her full attention, "that you might be interested in the job?" 

Kyrie stops, as if all the freckles on her nose have minds of their own. _Gods_ , its cute. 

"A job," she repeats. 

He nods. 

"To cook? In the House of Sparda?" 

Nero's eyes glisten in tune with her melodic voice. "We've got this big old lounge, and my friend, Patty— _gods_ , you'd love her—she takes care of _everything—_ " 

With a yelp, she leapt into his arms, knocking the fork and food right out of his hands. Another clatter signaled that the rest were done for, too. Aw, well. It wasn't like he was really stopping by just for the food anymore. The warmth of Kyrie's cheek burying into his chest, her fingers wrapped around his own—Nero understands why Aphrodite's boons seemed to have an extra kick lately. He would go to war with Ares to feel so loved just for a moment more. 

Nothing could be better than this feeling. And he's not even halfway done. 

* * *

As soon as he crosses one item off the list, Elysium’s passed him by like it was nothing. And to his replenished Devil Bringer and the flames of Red Queen, it might as well be. 

Before Dante can even wink, his nephew is right in his face. 

"Dante, listen," Nero starts as the roar of the crowd drowns him out. 

"Hey kid," his uncle greets with the usual grin. "What's up?" 

"I need you to kill me." 

" _What?!_ " 

"Please?" 

Dante's gone so slack he doesn't bother to dodge Nero's first swipe, and his doppelgänger barely jumps in to block the second. 

"Kid, I—we—" his nephew lunges at him again, claws out, "aren't we already doin’ that?" 

Nero only paused to breathe. "Yeah, but I don't actually wanna kill you," another swipe, a leap, and a kick, " _this_ time." 

"Then _why_ are you fighting me?" 

"Well," Nero scratches at his nose like it’s not already covered in blood and dirt, "we gotta make it look good, no?" 

A deep sigh rattles out of Dante's lungs until it gains the melody of a laugh. 

"You've got some explaining to do back at the House, kid." 

"Sure," Nero says, 'failing' to dodge his uncle's incoming slash, and tripping into the next. 

For the sake of his own restraint, Dante lets his clone deal the last blow. He can't bear to take the kid down—not like _this_ , with so many watching. When he wants another good, real fight, he'll do it without thinking. But now, Nero’s forced him to think too much and even the crowd noise can’t drown out the storm between his ears, as his only nephew coughs up blood and falls to his knees. 

"See you back at the House!" The kid practically sings as the Styx takes him away. 

It’s the happiest Dante's ever seen anyone die, mortal or god. 

"You better know what the hell you're doin, kid," he says to the air, or the Fates, or even just his clone, fading away to nothing but light in the empty arena. 

* * *

The prince sees to Nico last, with a sack of gemstones rivaling the size of the satyrs' he'd been stealing for Cerberus lately. 

"Contractor," he lauded as her eyes went wider than the frames around them, "I've another job for you." 

"W-what?" she hugged the gems close like a child snatching a large toy, as if he would take them back any moment, "I can do just about anything with these!" 

Nero leaned in, close enough that naught a single Shade in the hall could hear. 

"Think you can find a couple infernal contracts for me?" 

Nico had never grinned so fiercely in life or death. And the prince matched her, dimple for dimple. 

* * *

"I found your contract,” Nero says, like it’s the easiest thing in all the realm. As if it isn’t a Fate-defying act of Olympian law in itself. 

"...What?" Credo’s jaw hangs open, his goatee brushing his chest plate. 

In a blink of darkness, Nero holds out a scroll of parchment, and sure enough, Credo recognizes his own signature at the bottom. 

“‘Signee agrees to enter the House of Sparda as its guardian and to serve the Lord of the Underworld, Vergil. In exchange, one [REDACTED] is permitted entrance to their realm of choice, for all eternity.’” 

“...I can’t believe she chose Asphodel," Credo told his own somber reflection in the House's gleaming floor. "She could have frolicked in Elysium’s verdant fields for all time, and she chose Asphodel!” 

“Well, to be fair, the place wasn’t always flooded by lava.” Nero snickered. “And I don’t think Kyrie’s one for _frolicking_.” 

Credo is unamused. 

“Hey, we’re working on it,” the prince says without thinking. When had he started talking like a middle manager of the realms, and not an active destroyer of them? He’s not a part of this staff that his father orders around, no, he just... wants to help his friends live better afterlives? Wasn’t that just... being a decent god? He can't even _begin_ to dwell on it. 

“Why are you showing this to me?” Credo asks. 

Nero can't help the way his fingers drum on the scroll. “Because I’m _the prince_.” 

Credo’s eyes go blank, and Nero lets himself laugh aloud without the threat of his mentor’s spear. 

_“On my authority, I hereby release you from the terms of your pact.”_

An ancient, all-encompassing thrum echoes within Nero's oath. The parchment between his fingers catches fire and burns to ash, falling to their feet where the seal of the Underworld shines up and around Credo. Then, nothing. 

Then, another seal blinks to life in front of them, it's sparks building the form of a Shade out of thin air. 

“Credo!” 

“Kyrie!” 

Nero could only scratch his nose to cover the length of his smile while the siblings hugged. Gods, they could’ve been twins! How foolish had he been for not seeing the resemblance sooner? He would allow them as long a reunion as they could want for, just to remind them of the reality that still remained. 

“My father may still demand you stand guard shifts," he told them, "but both of you are free to come and go through the House as you please.” 

“That’s why I took up Nero on his offer,” Kyrie boasted to her brother. 

“What offer?” Credo looked Nero up and down with a suspect eye the prince had never seen before. 

“To be the lounge chef. That’s all!” _For now_ , his mind filled in. They could cross those more delicate bridges later. 

“So I can be around even when you’re working,” Kyrie confirmed with nothing but excitement glistening in her eyes. 

Credo hummed with a lack of commitment. 

"Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up," Nero saluted them. 

"Where are you going?' Credo demanded. 

“I’ve got some unfinished business with my own family.” 

“But you’ll come back, right?” Kyrie asked. 

Nero’s lips sealed shut. Would he, really? He’d been trying to leave for so long, it felt stupid to just give up now. Not while he still owed his father a good beatdown. Not when a would-be grandmother longed to meet him. 

He doesn’t want to lie to them. But he doesn’t want to leave them behind forever. 

“We’ll see.” 

He dashes off before either of them can stop him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while playing the game, i was originally convinced that eurydice would wind up joining orpheus as house musician, not the other way around lol. so this is my way of reinterpreting that prediction and writing around the absence of orpheus himself. kyrie would enjoy humming along with patty (just like dusa does) in the lounge anyway, i think :)


	6. gods' legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero fulfills his own prophecy.

This time, Nero is ready. The sight of his father's cloak drifting in the icy breeze is no surprise, and neither is the chilling sensation of snow, or the frozen earth beneath it. Only now he can clearly think: what a fitting place for the entrance to hell. Cold, barren, devoid of life, yet perched just on the precipice of both life and death. Did the mortals truly know what awaited them, just a few steps below? Could he himself even begin to guess what he would find past the door his father blocks? 

Only one way to find out. 

Vergil _hmphs_ right on schedule. "You always were a poor listener. Much too like your uncle." 

"Oh, I'm good at listening,” Nero scoffed as he ground his knuckles into Red Queen's hilt. "Not really fond of obeying, though." 

“Once again, it falls to me to teach you better.” 

“Maybe I can teach you a lesson for once.” 

“I welcome you to _try_ , boy.” 

Vergil's cloak falls into the snow, and father and son strike at each other once again. 

Nero instinctively covers his right—the Devil Bringer is safely sheathed within the breaker Nico calls Overture—just in case. He'd been careful not to exhaust his supply of them on the way up, and he doesn't intend to waste it. That's why this time, he's keen to let his father lead the way, just this once, if only to watch and learn. 

And Vergil is keen to teach his son as harsh a lesson as ever. 

For every judgement cut his father sends, Nero leaps out of its range, kicking up snow flurries in his wake. the cover blends in with his hair and skin, masking his position and frustrating even his lord father's keen senses. But the prince is no fool--he knows he can't just run and dash away from his father forever. At some point, he must strike, and at some point, he must cut his father down. Like Dante, Lady, Trish and Lucia were keen to teach him, he best not let a single strike go to waste. 

With the boon of Artemis' hunting sight, he sees his opening; right as Vergil completes Yamato's strike with a flourish—and leaves himself entirely open. 

Nero rears back, waits, and charges forward with every sort of slash he knows. 

The face of his lord father's surprise is one he'll never forget. Even as Vergil raises Yamato and its sheath to block, he's too late. Nero's momentum earns him several more slices before his father can finally regain his space. 

A brisk chill flows through the prince's hair, as if Demeter herself has gasped at his strength. 

"How's that for a showdown?" he teases. 

Vergil outright growls, melting the snow beneath his flared nostrils. 

"It would do you well to stay away from Olympus. They only have interest in flaunting their own vanity." 

Nero's brows sprang upward. "What, your cousins steal from you?" 

"...no. But what may seem like an oasis can be a prison." 

“Like you've been keeping me locked up in hell my whole life?” 

"'A truth told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent,'" his father recited, as if the Fates spoke their riddles directly through him. 

"Those aren't _answers_ , asshole!" 

Vergil merely smirked. 

Nero's deep frown focused so intently on his father, he nearly didn't feel the first summoned sword cutting through his back. With a curse, he rolled to the side, barely dodging the rest of the volley, though his robes now looked more like rotted cheese. 

"You clearly only want one kind of answer," Vergil threw another wave of swords, "and there's no guarantee you'll like what I have to give." 

"Just out with it already!" 

Nero ignored the mirage blades, rushing so quick after Vergil that the waves of swords appeared too late to stop him. Still, his father's speed is impressive, and he retains enough space to swing Yamato between them. Together, father and son sweep across the white battlefield in blue and red blurs, snow and ash evaporating around them instantly. 

"I'm! Sick! Of! It!" 

Each word is punctuated by a slash and a rev, ramping Red Queen's power to its absolute peak with every swing. Vergil dodged each one, but trapped himself in a bob-and-weave that Nero pressed forward relentlessly. The fire in his sword's engine never wavered—his finely-tuned instincts refreshing the exceed just as one swing ended and the next began. Soon enough, the Lord of the Underworld isn't even attacking; he can only defend, only to barely stop his son's sword from running him through. In the center of it all, Nero clenches the full force of his Devil Bringer beneath Overture's electric might, and charges at his father. 

With light as bright as the snow around them, the clash blinds them both. 

As the sparks and smoke begin to recede, Vergil remains leaning on one knee. Even the cold's harsh gusts die out, as if pulled back by Demeter herself, and the air fills only with the thick condensation of their own breath. 

"Well?" Nero stands above, all his posture firmly aligned. Strong, regal, victorious. 

His father's chapped lips curl upwards. 

"You will not find your mother on the surface." 

"What?" It's enough to break the prince's façade, and he lunges downward to collect his father by the collar. "What did you do to her? Who was she?" 

A dim chuckle escaped Vergil’s dry throat. His chest still heaved with breath. "You and I share similar tastes in nymphs, it seems. She was a dryad, I believe, and gave me no hint of your birth. I've no idea if she even still lives." 

Nero's eyes narrowed. "That can't be it." 

"No," his father sighed. "Part of my ascension to the throne entailed that I have no heirs." 

That draws the prince's eyebrows upward. 

Vergil merely shrugged. "It is typical of hell's kings; Dante and I were only born because our mother prayed to Hera so diligently, she had _pity_ for her." 

"As such, I planned for no children. Yet, you appeared in a black swaddle from the Styx, and I knew you had only survived the journey because you carried my blood, or some god clearly had that same pity for you. The strongest theory was that neither you nor your mother survived birth, but instead of floating down the Styx as a small Shade, the Underworld restored your life, somehow... Fates, scholars, and other gods have given me no solid answer as to _why_." 

Nero could do nothing but blink an impossible number of times, as his father's words seeped into his skin with a chill worse than the winter around them. It was certainly something, to be told he literally should _not_ exist, beyond some insignificant affair of his father's... 

"I thought you were just lucky, but clearly some small shred of power must have been viable to you, even then. As only a Son of Sparda could." 

The prince also does not dwell on the hint of pride that echoes off the last of his father's words. Miraculous births or not, they are all Sons of Sparda, and any doubts about his own mortal-diluted blood have vanished in the red-stained snow around them. 

"So, I was just a huge surprise, and my mother is gone." 

"If that's what you'd like to believe." 

Nero's fist clenches again, centuries of lies and anger seeping back into his veins. "What the hell was the point of not saying anything, then? Sure would've saved me the trouble." 

Another heavy gasp of mist leaves Vergil's lips. "It is not _your_ mother who was bound to Olympus, but _mine_." 

"My... grandmother, then. She sent you the note." 

A nod. Vergil leaned into Yamato and heaved himself back up with a low groan. A part of Nero wanted to beam again, because he had done that, he had defeated his father, lord of the entire realm, and this was his boon. 

"She is enshrined on that damned mountain now, yes," his father took a deep breath, "but she was born human, and still was when she bore Dante and I." 

"So... we're _both_ demi-gods?" 

"You even more so than I." 

"But I don't get it," Nero's mind grappled with the entire tapestry of his family's history, patchy and long as it still seemed. "Why would she be... and you—" 

"Your dad's a big coward, that's why." 

Both turned on a dime to find Dante climbing up the last of the snowy slope, flecks of blood and dirt still apparent in his hair. 

Vergil scoffed and turned away from his brother. "This doesn't concern you." 

Dante let out a sour tsk. "Damn right it does." 

“Do I need to kick your ass again?” Nero gripped Red Queen’s hilt, though it remained on his back. 

His uncle waved him off. “Maybe later.” 

“How are you back so soon, then?” 

Dante smirked. “Convinced Morrison to give me a quick ride upriver. I’ll be paying him back for the next decade, though.” 

Nero and Vergil rolled their eyes in tune. 

“Anyway," The God of Revenge planted the Rebellion into the snow and leaned onto its pommel, "what Mister Daemon King doesn't wanna tell you is why he's king in the first place: Sparda's gone." 

Nero frowned. "Nobody's _gone_ gone." 

"Well, he took off to help our cousins slay the Titans and never came back. Even they can't say what happened to him." 

"And you two couldn't help him?" 

"Nero," Dante’s voice goes low, almost enough to be lost in the bloody snow, "we were just kids." 

Vergil says nothing, moves for naught, and does nothing. He looks even stonier than the marble busts that carved his profile around the House of Sparda. Nero finds that he can only do the same. 

"When the daemons came for us right after, we got separated, and Mother tried to save us, but," he glared very pointedly at his twin, though Vergil's face was still frozen solid, even amidst all the scrapes Nero had left upon him. "...they got her, and we barely got away." 

Finally, the Lord of the Underworld scoffs. "Zeus _claimed_ that he awarded her immortality for heroism, but he just did it to gain favor with his wife." 

Dante reared up into his brother's face, ready to start yet another fight of their own. "She only took the nectar because she thought it'd give her a chance to save us, but those bastards played her!" 

"What? Why?" Nero forced his way in between his father and uncle, if not to separate them, then to keep them on topic. How could a newly-minted goddess be robbed of her children? Did they think her dead? Or she, of them? 

Vergil exhaled. "Because of our... _mixed_ parentage, we could not join her on Olympus, nor she on Earth with us." 

Dante sighed with a centuries-old fatigue. "The rest is history." 

Nero glanced between his father and uncle, disbelief widening his eyes at both of them. "And you've just never gone to see her yourself?" 

“Oh, he could pop into the place and say hi anytime, but you can’t exactly take a day off from ruling the dead, huh?” Dante elbowed his brother, only to earn an icy glare. 

Vergil sighed with more breath than his son had ever seen him take. 

"I fought and learned all that I could to earn the power I was owed as my father's heir, despite Olympus' meddling," he explained, "and I assumed you'd do the same, eventually." 

For a moment, Nero tried to picture his father, the Lord of all the Underworld, as a mere prince himself, fighting _towards_ the bottom of hell, just to claim his birthright. Was this what the Fates found funny, when they decided that Vergil would have an impossible child as well, only to be raised in that same hell? 

Still, Vergil continues. “My plans began much differently, but there was the idea that perhaps, one day, I could leave the realm in _capable_ hands, and wreak my power upon the fools who cursed us." 

Nero suddenly felt very small. Like the boy who thought stepping on his father's robes would trip him, opening a gap to swoop in with a well-timed tackle, only to meet nothing but his lord father's cold, boney ankles. Yet, the imposing figure of said father only scolded him for looking a fool, and instructed him to practice with Credo again. So he did, and here he was. 

If he had really paid attention to all the damned parchmentwork in the whole underworld, would he have ever lived up to that standard? In a few more centuries, maybe. But like Vergil before him, being a mere prince made Nero impatient, and gods _damn_ him, he wasn't just going to wait around to be handed any real power of his own. That much, he had learned just by getting to this snowy spot on the surface. 

“Perhaps.... this will be that chance.” 

"Go on, kid," Dante nodded with that lopsided grin of his. "You earned it." 

Nero looked back and forth between the Underworld and Olympus, the living and dead, to his father and uncle. Here stood the only family he'd ever known, bested by his own hand, looking up at him like something out of the legends. He'd spent _how_ long fighting for this chance, and now that he has it? It's almost.. too much. 

This is his choice, yet it means a lot more to them than him, now. 

"But..." 

He doesn't notice his father move between him and the gateway, but he doesn't react with malice. In fact, Vergil seems to purposely leave him the space to withdraw, should he wish, as he reaches into his endless cloak and pulls out a weathered scroll. Sealed with wax and a golden embellishment in the House’s familiar V-shaped icon, his father holds it out. 

"I won't lose next time," Vergil told him sternly, "but this is yours until then." 

They would see each other again, even with eons and realms spread between them. They would fight, of course, because he doesn’t count on any of them talking this much for another century or two. It wasn't on the Fate's lists, or either of their tongues, but they both knew it as resolutely as Nero had known he had to leave, all those attempts ago. 

All he can do is walk forward, then. But as if he can hear Orpheus scolding him, he can't help but look back. 

They're already gone. 

* * *

Nobody had ever warned him about how goddamn _bright_ it was on the surface. Maybe he really wasn't born for this place. Maybe... he didn't have enough god or mortal in him to last here. 

Well, at least he knew he still had a bed down below if they sent him back. 

As much as he doesn't want to walk towards the fabled mountaintop with both his hands over his eyes like an idiot, he can't blink fast enough to flush the light out. It’s easier to just look at the ground, where firm, familiar dirt and stone guide him upward. How much farther he must go, he can't tell, but he can certainly sense something. _Power incarnate_ , just as Father had described it, long ago, but he wasn't about to run back and tell him. 

Then, the ground is swallowed up by clouds and he stops. For a brief, stupid moment, he can't help but think: _Trish?!_

In front of him stands the figure of a woman, in robes of black and red with a gold embroidering he senses could have only been done by the hands of Hera herself. Surrounded by a field of wildflowers in full bloom, the moon rises just behind her nectar-colored hair, crowning her with a silver halo that he knows would shine through the darkest depths of Tartarus. 

The prince just keeps blinking, wondering if her image will ever set in or disappear, when she parts her lips for a smile he's seen the likes of only twice. 

"Hello, Nero."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even with the power of a godly emperor, Vergil is still a hurt little boy who isn't ready to face his mom yet 😞 that part definitely hit a little harder bc of VOV part 25, bc i think the crux of that chapter was meant to show just how fragile he was, even when things were good, bc having a ton of responsibility just does things to your emotions that you can’t control, even if the people around you try to help. sending Nero in his place would be a good first step, i think, to eventually reuniting the family bc grandkids tend to do that anyway!
> 
> so, in case you couldn't tell, my cast basically goes  
> -agni & rudra as a combined skelly  
> -dante as a remix of nyx  
> -credo as achilles  
> -lady & trish are just lady & trish tbh, filling meg & tisiphones spots rather than being them, yknow?  
> -patty as dusa was the EASIEST call omg i cant believe theyre a 1-to-1 match lol  
> -kyrie is basically Eurydice without an Orpheus, but hey, nero's still here! 🙂  
> -ofc nico is the contractor  
> -morrison is charon-ish just bc  
> -griffon & shadow are a hypnos mix too, bc who else could they be?
> 
> For the sake of continuity Orpheus and Eurydice definitely exist, but haven’t taken their in-game spots yet. Like now that Kyrie basically moves into the house, Eurydice’s future spot will be available for rent? Lmao
> 
> still have a short little epilogue after this, and we're done!


	7. in the blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero breaks one cycle and starts another.

Her name is Eva. She is Nero's grandmother. A _grandmother!_ She's kind and funny and warm and _real_. 

The only witness to their meeting is Artemis' silent moon, the light of her own twin's sun reflecting off its pale surface. Nero is relieved; the goddess of the hunt is the closest to his age of all their distant, Olympian family. She'll understand if he asks of another, smaller boon the next time they meet, surely? He doesn't want to imagine the taunting the gods will give him if they hear about certain awkward, teary hugs on the surface. 

Secondly, Eva makes her home at the foot of Olympus; for the absence of noise and drama. Her status as a mortal-turned-goddess leaves her little domain and even less duties, apparently, but Nero needs only one glance at the vast gardens surrounding them to realize where her specialties lie. 

She leads him to small table for two at the edge of a rose bush, its brambles reminding the prince of his father's own crown of thorns. Gods, the Fates never missed a single chance to be smug, did they? 

But it's easy to forget about Fate, Olympus, and even the Underworld while his grandmother gives her side of the family history. Nero fills in his own stories where he can. They can only tell of time passing at all thanks to the moon's slow ease towards the back of the garden. Nero already forms plans to spend a future night watching the night sky, maybe just to see those constellations his cousins spoke so highly of. 

“What is that you brought with you?” Eva points at the weathered scroll that sat on the table, forgotten amidst their long talk. 

“Oh that? My, uh, father gave it to me before I left. He said it’s mine until he can beat me again.” 

Eva's thin brows knotted together like the brambles at her feet. “Beat you? As in fight to the death yet again?” 

Nero gulped under her sharp eyes, but nodded. 

“That won't be happening if I can help it,” she scoffed in the exact manner Vergil did. Though her voice struck far more fear into his spine, somehow. 

All that anger fell right out of her voice as quickly as it came, however. 

“Oh....” she gasped as the parchment unrolled onto her lap. “These were his favorite poems, when he was but a boy.” 

“It is?” Nero leaned over to try and peek. Eva moved closer and pointed to a page at the back of the stack. 

“See there? That’s where he's written his name. He always did that, to keep his things separate from Dante’s.” 

“Yeah, that definitely seems like him,” Nero snorted. “But I dunno why he thinks I need it. Seems like it'd be better off stashed in his desk.” 

Eva looked at him sidelong for a good minute, her ruby-tinted smile getting wider and wider. “Don't you see?” 

“See what?” 

"You're his only son, Nero," she said it like it was the word of the Fates themselves. "He wants to share his interests with you." 

“That doesn't... he doesn't—there's _no_ way!” 

Eva laughed with the echo of a gentle breeze behind it. Nero swore he could see the roses around them _grow_ a little. "An appreciation of literature goes very deep into our family—all the way back to Sparda, actually! He always said that its creation is one of the greatest gifts that mortals possess." 

"Well, that's nice and all, but I can't say I'm a huge fan. Father didn't really do the best job of selling it, y'know." 

"Well, we'll just have to fix that now, won't we?" 

Eva grinned again and returned the scroll. Nero rolled it up quickly and flinched. He pulled back his hand only to find the thinnest line of blood beginning to flow on his finger. 

"...you bleed," Eva gasped like any mother would. At least, Nero thought so. He didn't exactly have any experience to go off of. 

The prince just grimaced and wiped it away. "Yeah, so I've been told." 

“No, Nero, I don't think you fully understand,” his grandmother held him by his shoulder, her eyes fixed on the thin stream of blood staining the blue of his robes. "Gods rarely bleed, and those that do certainly don't bleed _red_. That is exclusive to the mortals." 

Nero grimaced. "But we're a little mortal, aren't we?" 

"I used to be, but even when my brambles pierce my skin, I no longer bleed the color I was born with." 

"So.... what does that mean? I’ve died dozens of times now, so I’m definitely still immortal." 

Eva frowns, and Nero knows instinctively that even given their circumstances, hearing of her grandson's deaths will never be an easy topic. "Indeed, you are." 

Nero looked to his uninjured hand; the clawed palm of his Devil Bringer. He hadn't noticed earlier, but its usually strong blue glow is dim, even under the darkness of night. “I’ve always felt like my arm was fueled by my blood, the way it powers me up, y’know?” 

His grandmother nodded. 

"But I figured that was because of my father, or Sparda, or whatever daemonic power we have naturally." 

"That may be true, but I believe it is more indicative of your strength—the human strength that Sparda sought to protect. You are the embodiment of that power, in both mortal and god, daemonic and human.” 

Eva settles her hands over his, a comfort settling into his veins that he’d never dreamt of feeling. It seeps into his slowing pulse, like a new boon that pulls him away from a fight, rather than towards one. 

"Nero, you may be the God of blood, of life itself." 

The air leaves his lungs so completely he forgets how to bring it back. But with a weak pulse of his chest, he realizes that he _can’t_. And what had begun as a thin splatter on his chiton becomes a steady river of blood, dripping from his nose and mouth. 

"W-well, that makes a lotta sense," he stammers and falls to his knees, an ache settling into his bones entirely. 

"Oh, Nero," Eva kneels to his level, both arms enveloping him in something he thinks is a hug, but again, his frame of reference is really small, and he can only feel so much anymore. "Don't despair, my little daemon. You'll be alright. We'll see each other again soon, I’m sure." 

"Yes..." he gasps with the last breath he can fathom. "We will." 

As Apollo's chariot streaks across the sky with a deluge of pinks and yellows, cast with a brightness the prince has never seen, Nero’s Styx-born body fades into the earth. 

* * *

The House of Sparda receives its prince by the same avenue in which he was born and had died to every time since; through the Pool of Styx. 

Nero has learned to expect nothing else. 

He takes a big breath, shakes the Styx out of his hair, and looks up. 

A crowd of faces and bodies block out the entire receiving hall, masking his father's desk and the giant mural behind it. There's Dante and Credo with Kyrie, next to Patty, Nico, Trish, Lady and Lucia, their faces covering an entire spectrum of joy and relief he'd yet seen in all his immortal years. Even Griffon and Shadow seem as lively as they can, sans the list of the dead. Was the prince's death even technically a death, since no one had killed him? Would it qualify as those vague 'natural causes' Griffon always went on about? 

Even Vergil lingers at the back of the thrum, stern crystal blues averted away, but the entirety of his frame still faces his wayward son. 

"You came back!" the crowd is shouting and gasping with varying tones of glee. 

Nero lets them swarm him, the warmth of dead and eternal souls alike drying his skin instantly. He can't help but crook his smile at them and laugh. 

"I'm home." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: wait so how is Nero gonna figure it out and how should he die?  
> my brain, fueled by alcohol: PAPERCUT
> 
> to be fair, i think i stumbled across a cause of death that the narrator would totally use! theres gotta be some levity in all these deaths or i'm just gonna make myself sad tbh
> 
> Anyways, that's the fic! I just really loved the idea that Zag's of both worlds, which fits Nero PERFECTLY so I had to roll with it. he can't just leave Kyrie and all his dead friends behind, can he? they've got centuries, and getting out only gets easier, right? it'll be better knowing he isn't trapped anymore 😄 in my own playthru, it took about 8 runs (out of 49 in total lol) before i finally beat [redacted], but for the sake of this fic, Nero wins on the 2nd try, otherwise I would've been stuck w/a couple thousand more words of his trying and failing to kick Vergil's ass lol
> 
> thanks again for reading, and go play hades if you haven't already! even if you think it might not be for you, it has its ways of drawing people in :)

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://misstalwyn.tumblr.com/)   
>  [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/auraofdawn)


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